Cause I Can't Have You
by Goddess-of-the-Night04
Summary: My take on Sherlock's inner monologue/turmoil before and during the tarmac scene of His Last Vow. "My brother whisked me off promptly and kept me locked up while he negotiated a plan that might end with me not being put to death. I found myself not understanding what the difference is: dead or alive, I still don't have you." One-shot songfic. Canon and HLV compliant.


**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the BBC Sherlock empire and make no money from this work of fiction.

**A/N: **I've been fighting this idea for weeks, but every time this song comes up on my iPod it fights back with a vengeance, so I finally had to write it.

The song verses referenced in Italics are "Manhattan" by Sara Bareilles...I strongly suggest having the lyrics up as you read to refer to which part of the song goes with what I was envisioning during each scene, or you could listen to the song.  
Lyrics: www .azlyrics. c0m /lyrics/sarabareilles/manhattan .html (without spaces and replace the zero (0) with the letter o)  
Song: www .youtube. c0m /watch?v=8wKU-jaus6w (without spaces and replace the zero (0) with the letter o)

***note **that I _really _think this story loses most of what makes it strong and effective by not allowing the lyrics to be actually within the story. **Archive of Our Own** has this up in the version I intended it to be read as; it's under the same title and my username is just Goddess_of_the_Night there. **I'd prefer now that you read it there instead.**

Some people make fanvids when a song inspires their OTP thoughts, but I have zero skills in that area, so I flesh them out in to stories instead, and this song is beautiful.

I don't typically read fanfics in this genre (HLV fix-its or in-depth looks), so I'm really sorry if this has been done a million times or isn't interesting.

All tarmac dialogue belongs to the BBC Sherlock crew, but the actions/reactions are mostly mine/my interpretation of what I saw.

* * *

It all happened very quickly, really. I shot Magnussen so you could be happy again with Mary being safe from his blackmail. There wasn't a single doubt in my mind about what I needed to do; I would do anything for you to be happy, and since it appears that being with your wife and not me – not ever me – does that, well, who am I to argue?

My brother whisked me off promptly and kept me locked up while he negotiated a plan that might end with me not being put to death. I found myself not understanding what the difference is: dead or alive, I still don't have you.

It still amazes me how I went through my entire life avoiding the incredibly pointless notion of love until suddenly, one fateful day in January, you limped in to that room in St. Bart's and changed my entire life. Changed it for the better, really, but…_God_, this hurts. Is it supposed to hurt like this, John? This _much_? It cripples me with its intensity at times, almost like I'm being shot all over again by that woman you chose over me.

How? I'm more than aware that I'm not worthy of anyone's affections – least of all yours - but _her_? Alas, the choice was made long ago, while I left you to save you and allowed you to believe that I was dead. I wouldn't change what I did except to maybe have done it quicker. If I had returned six months earlier, would all of this be different?

It's almost a relief when Mycroft tells me that he negotiated terms that will allow me work on one last case. He assures me that it is most certainly still a death sentence, but at least I'll be useful one more time. In his tone I can hear that he secretly hopes that I'll find an escape akin to the one I helped Irene achieve, but I don't have it in my heart to try. This will be best for everyone.

Mycroft escorts me to Baker Street to pack, and I take the time to assemble a box of things to be given to you. In it I place my laptop full of case information, notebooks full of handwritten notes that I didn't yet get a chance to add to my database, the skull from the mantle, the keys to the flat (just in case), and finally my violin. What doesn't make it in to the box that probably should is one of your jumpers that I stole a few years ago; it helped get me through my "death" the first time and I can't imagine going to my real one without it.

"Your plane departs in one hour," Mycroft subtly urges me faster, no trace of sentiment in his voice.

I send a glare his way before zipping up my bag, "Make sure the box makes it to John," I say emotionlessly as I move towards the door.

"I'll have someone deliver it presently," he assures me before making a call that I, for once, don't listen in on.

After picking up the last of the paperwork and details, we arrive on the tarmac and I prepare to leave you without a single word. I learned from my mistake last time; not talking to you before it happens is going to be so much easier for you.

_[Reference verse 1]_

I stand impatiently next to the plane, unsure why we're waiting.

And then I see the car and I know – I just _know _– that you're in it. I glare intensely at Mycroft with a hint of hurt.

That goddamn bloody car that he sent to bring the box to you then brought you back to me. This isn't what I wanted at all.

"Why would you do this?" I ask him icily.

"You can't simply jet off on him again without saying a word. He deserves to know the truth."

And the pointed look he gives me tells me that he knows the true depth of my feelings for you. Why can't you know the way he does, without words? Why must I attempt to put a voice to these thoughts that I never wanted to be plagued with in the first place?

Mary steps out of the car first and my stomach plummets as I'm reminded why I thought it best to leave to begin with. For the last time, I swallow down the pain of seeing you with someone else. I will not miss this.

I place a grin on my face as she comes towards me and we embrace.

"You _will_ look after him for me, won't you?" I tease her lightly, dying a little on the inside already.

"Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble," she promises with a smile, but I want to scream at her. It's not trouble that you enjoy; it's adventure and excitement and the thrill of the chase. It's always been trouble that _frightens_ you.

"That's my girl," I say instead with my smile still in place.

She walks away and I have no other choice but to look at your face. You look nervous and sad and I really can't stand it, I truly can't.

I turn to my brother with a forced calm, "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft looks shocked that I'm following through with this. He anticipated that I would say a quick goodbye and get on the plane. Without delay he motions to my bodyguard and Mary to move away with him, and suddenly it's just you and me as it always should have been. As it can never be again.

You've made a life with Mary and I respect that.

_[Reference verse 2]_

I can let you have that life, but you cannot expect me to stick around to watch it.

_[Reference chorus]_

"So, here we are," you start lamely, and I can't even bring myself to scold you for the quaintness of the statement.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I say simply because I can't think of any other words.

"Sorry?" You ask, understandably confused.

It takes me a second to think about an excuse for why I would have mentioned my entire name, then I remember the importance of full names to you, "That's the whole of it – if you're looking for baby names," I smirk as I remind us both of Irene Adler and your desperate interruption of what you perceived to be a "moment" between me and her. Foolish. As if anyone has compared to you since our first case together.

"No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl," you smile, squinting in to the sun or fighting tears, I can't quite determine.

"Oh," I say quietly with a slight smile, "Okay."

_"_Yeah," you start hesitantly, looking at the group behind me, "Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say."

"No, neither can I," I admit while looking at the ground. My eyes rise up as you move a few steps closer to me.

"The game is over," you whisper.

My heart clenches at the accurate words that I have been denying to myself, and can't help but negate you, "The game is never over, John, but there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end," I add the last bit without thinking.

"What's that?" You ask, and for just a moment I can convince myself that this isn't the last conversation we're ever going to have; that this is the last story I will ever tell you. I can't help but attempt to drag it out just a bit.

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind: this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me," I end with a smirk.

"Nice," you chuckle sarcastically and I laugh.

"He was a rubbish big brother," I concede.

And in that moment I remember all of the times we had that were just like this: not a care in the world if our laughter was inappropriate or obnoxious. There were so many emotions I never felt before you came in to my life, so many experiences I dismissed as inconsequential.

I wish now that I could delete those feelings so I don't have to know what I'm missing without you, but I selfishly never want you to forget. The night Angelo brought you your cane that you no longer needed; the incident at Baskerville; the tube carriage where we almost couldn't stop parliament from blowing up.

_[Reference verse 3]_

My heart aches again thinking that we will never have another moment like that.

_[Reference chorus]_

"So what about you, then?" You ask with a false calmness, "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," I say vaguely, knowing that by the end of it I could be covering quite a bit more ground than that.

"For how long?"

I can't look you in the eye; I fear I've trained you too well to see that there's more I'm not telling you, "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

"And then what?" You ask with an edge to your voice, and I know you've detected more details under the surface. Clever John.

I look at you just briefly before I direct my gaze above your head, "Who knows?" I aim for nonchalance. I think I even manage it.

You look back towards my brother and your wife almost guiltily. I can see the fight in your eyes: you want to speak but you don't know what to say. I take pity on you and begin for the both of us.

"John, there's something I should say," I start slowly, "I-I've _meant_ to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now," I stop for a breath and stare in to your eyes again to see your hope and fear warring with each other, and I know I can't possibly do this to you. I've been accused countless times of being both heartless and tactless, but I cannot selfishly tell you of my love and then leave you on a suicide mission. With a lump in my throat and a heavy weight in my chest, I make an abrupt change, "Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

You laugh outright because it catches you so off guard and is so incredibly false. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, your smile.

"It's not," you disagree, still smiling as you shake your head.

I shrug with a falsely care-free smirk, "It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you."

"I think it could work," I insist half-heartedly.

_[Reference verse 4]_

After a moment filled with subtext and regret, I remove my right glove and hold my hand out to you.

"To the very best of times, John."

There are a few seconds where I think you will denounce my hand to pull me in to a hug instead, and I am caught off guard by my deep desire for you to do so. But in the end - after an intense deliberation that I watch every back-and-forth of in your eyes - you grasp my hand firmly in yours and don't let go for longer than I am certain is socially acceptable.

Without another word, I head on to the private plane before I can no longer keep my tears at bay.

_[Reference verse 5]_

As the plane takes off I watch your form grow smaller through the window. My eyes tear up but I fight them falling – I still have some semblance of control, dammit! – as my right hand, the one you held on to so tightly just minutes ago, is pressed to my lips reverently.

_[Reference chorus]_

* * *

**A/N:** You know what happens next. In my head the plane still turns around and a new adventure begins with John and Sherlock still at least near each other. I'm hoping, anyway.

I'd love to hear your thoughts/(preferably constructive)criticisms on this story. I truly hope you enjoyed it and that it didn't disappoint!


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